


signs of a new lifetime

by swordfishtrombones



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, happy....ness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordfishtrombones/pseuds/swordfishtrombones
Summary: Eddie’s plane lands twenty minutes early, and for the first time in his life he switches airplane mode off before he’s strictly supposed to.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 96
Kudos: 541





	signs of a new lifetime

Eddie’s plane lands twenty minutes early, and for the first time in his life he switches airplane mode off before he’s strictly supposed to. He opens his messages hastily, eager to let Richie know about the extra time. Richie texts back before Eddie can start worrying that he’s still on the highway, a party horn emoji that makes Eddie grin and redden. He turns to the window to stare out at the tarmac, eyes driving across it as if he could track his path from the gate to the Hilton from here. 

It’s really not necessary. Eddie has reviewed the directions between his terminal and the shitty Hilton sports bar so many times, he could probably walk it with his eyes closed. Ever since boarding his plane in New York he’s been fighting the paranoia that he’ll somehow take a wrong turn and miss Richie entirely, but that’s not going to happen. There’s nothing to worry about. His bag is checked. The walk to the bar is supposed to take fifteen minutes, but Eddie’s gonna make it ten. With the early arrival, they’ve got a solid hour before he'll need to head back for his connecting flight to San Diego. 

San Di-fucking-ego. By rights, Eddie should be seeing Richie in  _ California,  _ where he  _ lives,  _ but of course nothing can be that simple. Trust Eddie’s office to delay booking conference tickets until the last possible moment. By the time Eddie got word he was heading to the west coast, it was too late. 

Over the phone, Richie had groaned,  _ “Fuck  _ my life, that’s the same week I’m visiting Bev. Maybe I could—” 

“No,” Eddie had cut him off. “Shit. It’s okay, Rich. I’ll visit when it’s an actual visit, not a stupid work thing.”

Eddie had called from his office garage, and after they hung up he sat there for a moment, looking at his phone. Then he pulled up Expedia, found a flight to San Diego with a layover in Chicago, and booked it before he could start thinking the idea was stupid.

It was the fact that Richie hadn’t even mentioned the 120-odd miles between LA and San Diego that had done it for Eddie, for whatever reason. Richie was always doing things like that. Picking up the phone even if he was out with someone else, even if it was just to let Eddie know when he'd call him back. Calling when he said he was gonna call. Acting like talking to Eddie was a priority. 

Still, having Richie drive to the airport just for a bad hotel lunch felt like a big ask, so Eddie hadn’t asked; he’d just mentioned the layover. And Richie, true to form, had shouted in joy and asked where they should meet. 

+

Two days after leaving Derry the second time, Eddie was in a new apartment. Need a short-term, insanely expensive, fully furnished one-bedroom that you could move into today, just outside the city? There was, apparently, an app for that. 

It had all happened very fast; but also, depending on when you started counting, it had happened very, very slowly. Sometimes Eddie estimates that his marriage was ending before he’d even popped the question, anxious and uncertain in front of Myra’s family at Thanksgiving dinner. 

On one of his first nights in the new, disconcertingly quiet space, he had pulled up an interview that Richie had done on a late night talk show and watched a minute or two. It had felt funny and weird to see Richie in an interview, performing himself—a little different than watching him perform the way he did during a set. Eddie caught himself feeling a little agitated, stuck on the tiny discrepancies between this Richie and the real one. This Richie talked a little bit slower, and had a nervous habit of touching his chin that Eddie had never seen before. 

When the studio audience laughed, Eddie clicked back and listened to the sound again, trying to guess the size of the crowd. All those people right there, in the surreal position of knowing exactly where Richie was and what he was doing in that moment, but none of them knew the exact quality of his normal speaking voice. 

After he turned off the clip, Eddie had gotten up to order himself some dinner (he hadn’t gotten a chance to fill the mini fridge yet) and, after just a second of hesitation, called Richie on the phone. 

“Eddie?” Richie had said. He sounded trepidatious, at first. Anything still could’ve gone wrong. 

“Hey,” he said. “What are you doing right now?”

It was the beginning of their routine. 

He should feel more terrible, he knows. Just in general. Divorce is long and painful and expensive and humiliating, and when the reality of it hits, maybe it’ll cure him of this altered state. But getting off the phone with Richie that first time, Eddie had felt as if he’d given nourishment to something warm inside him that only kept growing with encouragement. He’s living in it now, this haze of strange hope and warmth and sometimes bouts of euphoria that leave him crashing into a good kind of exhaustion. He thinks he gets, now, what it means to feel stoked. 

+

Eddie power walks through the terminal, zipping and unzipping his jacket, fighting the impulse to check GPS just in case. 

They had picked the bar twelve hours earlier. Eddie had sat in his tiny new living room, rolling his dress pants into neat tubes, while Richie read him their options out loud over Facetime. Richie had spent a few minutes trying to talk Eddie into the outrageously tacky, heavily chandeliered restaurant themed after the roaring twenties, but the idea of waiting for waitstaff had made Eddie jittery. Which feels like a justifiable concern, considering how jittery he’s become anyway. 

Instead of letting himself walk the whole way staring at his phone, he reaches into his pockets for earbuds (bluetooth gives you cancer), disentangling them with one hand. With the other he holds his phone up to his face, and tells it, quietly as he can, “Call Richie.”

It’s the sort of embarrassingly obvious impulse that Eddie would usually squash, but his impulse control has massively devolved recently. There’s a thrill, too, in showing his hand. A double thrill in knowing that Richie likes when Eddie shows it. 

“Eds spagheds!” Richie’s voice bursts across the line as Eddie steps onto the moving walkway. The phone hadn’t rung. Richie must have been staring at his phone too. Eddie can imagine it: Richie sitting in the Hilton sports bar, jiggling his leg frantically the way he does when he’s nervous or excited, waiting for Eddie to join him. 

Eddie groans performatively, wondering if Richie can hear him grinning. He gets a weird kick of adrenaline, knowing how close they are. Knowing they’ll see each other soon.

“That might be the very worst variation, dude,” he says. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Richie drops into his updated version of the British Guy voice, better than when they were kids but still lightyears from nailing John Cleese. “Can I call you Sugarplum?”

“No!” 

“How about Frank?”

“President Nixon’s got a hedgehog called Frank,” Eddie says automatically, and Richie laughs deliriously, even though they’ve completely butchered the bit. Eddie steps off the walkway and ducks around a college kid hugging her mom. “I’m walking. I’ll be there in six minutes. Five and a half.”

“Awesome.” Regardless of whether Richie can hear Eddie’s grin, Eddie can always hear Richie’s. “I’m at the bar. It sucks. Can’t wait.” 

Which of course makes Eddie feel warm again. He probably looks like an absolute tool, but it’s hard to care.

Eddie gets out of the airport as quick as he can, weaving around families pushing luggage on trolleys and single people milling about confusedly and squinting at signs. As soon as he steps out onto the ugly street between the airport and the hotel his stomach lurches again, because he can see it now, the building that has Richie in it. 

+

There’s no good way to tell someone you want to unhinge your jaw and eat them alive, so Eddie hasn’t said anything yet.

Or, that’s not true. You don’t Facetime twice a day without saying anything, even if it sometimes seems that way. If a coworker told Eddie they were talking to a childhood friend this frequently, he’d wonder what they could possibly have left to say. But it turns out that even when he doesn’t have shit to say in general, he still has shit to say to Richie. 

They’ve talked about their families, their friends (both the shared ones and the new ones), their jobs, their weekends. They’ve taken turns painting pictures of their lives, inviting each other to look around. They just haven’t talked, exactly, about the thing it feels like they probably should talk about. But. Well. Actions speak louder, right?

In Derry, those days between killing It and heading home, Eddie had thought they’d found just the right balance between talking and not talking. The six of them stayed up late in the inn’s dimly lit sitting room, telling stories, laughing and weeping like it was the end of a corny movie. Sinking into a kind of closeness that Eddie had long assumed only existed as performance. 

They didn't stay in the inn for long—wasn't exactly filled with good memories—but the night after they killed It, after everyone had slept and showered and started putting themselves back together, Richie knocked on the door of Eddie's suite with a bag of Cheetos in his hand, and Eddie let him in. 

They had done the exact same thing two nights before, sitting and talking on the same grandmotherly couch in Eddie’s room. It had felt surreal, to repeat the movements when only the emotion had changed. The terror had mostly dissipated. Instead there was exhaustion, and grief, which at the time mostly felt like more exhaustion. Eddie could almost be glad for the weariness, because it meant there was no choice but to finally be still. 

It was under this blanket of tiredness that Richie had reached slowly across the couch and taken Eddie’s hand. 

“When It, like, jumped at you,” he said. The bag of Cheetos was unopened on the floor. Richie’s voice and eyes were raw. “I really thought, for a second. Really fucking thought, you know. That was that.”

Eddie looked at Richie’s hand. He was so sluggish the air felt weighted, and the hand in his hand felt heavy enough to sink them both through the earth. It was an odd feeling to see his fingers clasped with Richie’s. New and old. Surprising and also not surprising at all. 

“I’m fast,” he said, feeling very stupid. “Fastest mouse. In all of Derry.”

Richie gave a little croak like he was trying to laugh. “I don’t know,” he said, “what I would’ve. Like. Done. I don’t fucking know.”

He didn’t have to know, Eddie had thought. That was the nice thing. They didn’t have to think about it anymore. 

Maybe he was just drunk with tiredness, but everything had felt very simple right then. They were all right, and their lives were about to change. Eddie’s brain was offline, and the nervous energy that usually ran through his chest had finally worn itself out and gone to bed. That left just his gut to make decisions, and his gut thought the right thing to do was to put his weary body close to Richie’s body and to try to keep it there. 

Richie’s hand was heavy as a brick, but Eddie picked it up and brought it to his mouth. He’d never kissed someone’s hand before, he realized. Funny thing to have never done.

He caught the look on Richie’s face. “Nothing to cry about,” he said.

“I’m not crying.” 

“You’re all shiny.”

_ “You’re  _ all shiny.”

The honorable thing to say would be that they hadn’t pushed things because, technically speaking, Eddie was still a married man. But in retrospect, Eddie thinks that would be giving himself a lot of credit. If anything, sitting in it had just felt good. Sitting there in the knowledge that before too long, it was going to happen.

At some point they clambered downstairs, where their friends were waiting. They lay around like six corpses, but they weren’t corpses. Corpses couldn’t put away five large greasy pizzas the way they did that night. After four slices Richie’s TMJ had started acting up, and Eddie had reached across to rub his tired jaw.

+

The way the movies make it look, when you see the person you most want to see across a public space, time is supposed to slow down to give you the chance to savor the moment. Instead, Eddie’s ears immediately start ringing, and he somehow crosses the room to where Richie’s sitting without noticing that he’s moving his legs.

“Hi,” he says. 

Richie’s got a bright button-down on, sitting on his worn-out looking bomber jacket. He grins, gets off his barstool, and wraps his arms tight around Eddie’s shoulders.

“How the fuck are you?” Richie asks, squeezing hard enough to make them sway.

Which. Well. “Good,” says Eddie, reaching to hug him back. “Really good.” There’s a lot of static going on inside his brain and chest. But just like the last time he saw Richie, the pit of his stomach is doing the opposite thing. No queasiness, at least not right now. Just the heavy desire to stay put. 

The bar really does suck, tiny with long plastic tables that look as if they might be collapsible. It’s not yet noon. Richie’s been sitting at the bar with a plastic diner glass of Lipton and ice, which he brings over to the far end of one of the ugly tables, closest they can find to privacy. 

“You got tea?” 

“Dude, do you not remember me with  _ coffee?” _ Richie crosses his eyes and whistles. “Plus, one cool thing about being forty, creamer makes me shit myself now.”

“I went to all this trouble to see an incontinent geriatric.”

“Yeah, all the trouble, rolling the fifteen fucking feet between terminal three and this Taco Bell-looking place.” 

"Shit." Eddie looks over his shoulder at the narrow room and the bright beer list suspended above the bar. "It does look like a Taco Bell.”

“When was the last time you were in a Taco Bell?”

Eddie is about to answer, but he catches himself. “No, wait, dude—”

Richie laughs. “Did I accidentally uncover a really good story?”

“No—” Eddie pulls out his phone and tells it, “Set a timer for fifty minutes.” He lays it facedown between them. “Insurance policy.”

“Counting down the seconds already?”

“I’m on a tight schedule, you’re not gonna trick me into spending this whole time talking about Taco Bell.” 

“Eddie, believe me, I would not let you miss your plane. You think I want you to spend the rest of your life associating me with the cold sweat you get pacing back and forth in front of an airport information desk? No thanks.”

“Smart. Tell me about overhearing Beverly and Ben on the phone,” Eddie says.

“Oh my  _ god,”  _ Richie says, tossing his head back to laugh. “You’re gonna be sorry you asked.”

That keeps them going for a good while. Eddie orders large fries and a water to justify the seats they’re taking up. He watches Richie gobble up the fries, occasionally talking and laughing with his mouth still full, and remembers them as kids, doing the same thing, Richie stuffing his cheeks with tater tots and saying,  _ Hey, Eds, you like see-food?  _

Richie’s hand has inched out on the table, and looking at it, Eddie can almost perfectly remember what it felt like to have it against his face and his mouth. It looks vulnerable there, waiting for an answer. 

He can do this. 

Eddie reaches out and squeezes Richie’s hand, once. He brings his own hand back quick, putting it into his lap. Richie looks up at him sharply, like the touch was a surprise.

“Uh,” Eddie says. “Thanks for coming, by the way. If I haven’t said that.”

Richie visibly recovers. “Yeah, you sure haven’t, man. Just go ahead and assume I’m at your beck and call.” He scoffs.

“You’re not exactly proving me wrong.” 

“Yeah, well. To do that, it’d have to not be true.” 

They look at each other for a moment. Eddie realizes he’s starting to feel woozy, and then becomes hyperconscious of what his face is doing. He rubs his hand over his mouth to stop it feeling stiff from the effort of not giving too much away.

Richie picks up a french fry and starts the disgusting process of picking off its crispy exterior. “I gotta be back home by Monday, but I mean, if I stick around here—you got your flight home booked yet? If it’s coming through O’Hare, I’d do this again.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s not, like, a chore.”

“You miss me that much?” 

“I mean. Do your thing. But I do kinda wanna…” Richie brings his fist up to eye level and swings it around, miming twirling a lasso. He swings the invisible lasso forward, around Eddie, and yanks the invisible rope toward him. 

“Is that, like, a BDSM thing?” Eddie asks, raising his glass.

“No, man,” Richie says, grinning at him. “I think it’s a, a something-else kinda thing.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but it might look less convincing considering he’s also grinning hard into his lemon water. 

“Oh my god,” he says. His stomach is flipping, but he’s surprised to see his hands are steady. “Just say it.”

Richie gives a laugh that sounds like a yelp. He looks absolutely thrilled, the kind of excitement growing in his eyes that can tilt at any moment into deranged.  _ “You  _ just say it!”

Eddie puts his water down and leans forward. “I think you’re  _ dying  _ to say it.”

“Maybe I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Richie casts his eyes to the sky, feigning innocence.

“Oh, you don’t know?”

_ “Maybe  _ I don’t.” 

“You want  _ me  _ to say it?”

“As if you would, you fuckin’ baby.”

“Look who’s talking!” Eddie picks up his coaster and flicks it at Richie, who yelps again and bats it away. 

“Well, I’m not gonna say it  _ now.” _ Richie pulls his phone out of his pocket and holds it to his ear. “Hello? Winston? Yes, the enemy has deployed weapons of mass destruction, preparing to counterstrike.”

“Oh, sorry, too rough for you? And I’m the baby?”

“You’re always the baby, baby.”

Eddie sits back in his chair, which makes him realize how far forward they’d both been leaning. He can’t stop beaming. He feels a little crazy. 

_ “I _ think,” he tells Richie, “that  _ you _ have a little crush on me.”

Richie doesn’t say anything to that. He cocks his head at Eddie, still grinning, and raises his eyebrows.  _ Et tu?  _

Eddie wants to scream, or set off running. He is dizzy, stupid with happiness. 

Something happens on TV to make the crowds holler. 

“Go Mets,” says Richie.

“It’s football, Richie."

“The Mets aren’t football?”

“Jesus Christ. We have a lot to catch up on.”

“You’re so pedantic, you’d make a great professor.” Richie bats his eyelashes at him. “Please, Mr. Kaspbrak, I'd do  _ anything _ for extra credit.”

“Good to know what kind of porn you watch every night.”

“You don’t know shit. I watch  _ Fixer Upper _ on HGTV and get choked up about how much Chip and Joanna love each other.”

“Even worse.”

“You’d love  _ Fixer Upper _ on HGTV.”

“I already love  _ Fixer Upper _ on HGTV,” Eddie admits, and Richie laughs out loud. Eddie joins him. 

That opens the floodgates. For a minute they sit there, holding each other’s eyes, snorting and shaking with laughter. 

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fucking liar!”

It’s like there’s a lantern in Eddie’s hands and it’s glowing brighter and brighter the longer they talk, keeping him and Richie in the same orbit.

“Man,” says Richie, and laughs some more. "So, what about it? Am I gonna see you on your way back?" 

"I don't know. Fuck. No, I don't think I can handle this again."

Richie cups his hands in front of him. "Please, sir, can I have a little of your time? Spare a drop of attention?"

"Yeah, just a drop." Eddie puts his fingers into his water glass and flicks the droplets at Richie, laughing when Richie catches him by the wrist. They grapple for a minute and sort themselves out. 

Eddie wipes his hand on his jeans. “I'm on this project right now that wraps in two weeks,” he tells Richie. “I've got seventeen days of accumulated PTO. I'll come see you.”

Richie looks that way again. Shiny. “I could come to you,” he says. “I don’t mind being your little kept man while you put bread on the table.”

“No.” Eddie knows that Richie means the offer sincerely, but he also knows what it would mean. Cancelled dates, rearranged plans. If they’re starting this, he’s not going to start it by upending Richie’s life any more than it already has been. He’s gonna be the bearer of good changes only. “Gimme two weeks. I wanna see how you live.” 

“Don’t say that like two weeks is nothing," Richie says. “Possums get pregnant and have babies in two weeks.” 

“Is that true?”

“Eddie, I swear—look at me, listen—I swear to god, I will  _ never _ lie to you.” 

Eddie snorts and picks up his phone so Richie can’t see the joke getting to him. He scrolls through his calendar. "The twenty-third. I can be there the night of the twenty-third."

"Twenty-third," Richie echoes. 

"Yeah." He leans in and puts his hand around Richie's wrist. Richie turns his hand, copying the movement. They’re holding onto each other when the alarm goes off on Eddie’s phone. 

\+ 

Richie walks him back to the terminal. They stand away from the line heading into security, getting ready to say another goodbye.

In the security line, families are bickering, or not talking, or talking with a tone of voice that says they wish they weren’t; babies are fussing; young women in leggings and stretched out t-shirts are looking at their phones. No one likes airports. Eddie looks down the line at the unhappy faces, and thinks,  _ suckers.  _

Once, must’ve been sixth or maybe seventh grade, Richie had tackled Eddie on their way out of school. They’d both gone down hard in the damp grass, definitely harder than Richie had expected, judging by the surprised way he shouted and laughed. Eddie had shoved him off harder than they’d fallen. It hadn’t really hurt, but when he stood up, his one decent pair of jeans were torn at the knees and dyed dark green. They jumped on each other all the time, but that time he felt rattled. Which came out the same way most things did for him, as fury. 

He’d snapped at Richie not to touch him and stomped straight home. In his room he tore open his stupid little address book and scratched out Richie’s number until the pen went through the paper. When that didn’t feel like enough he went downstairs, pulled the phone book out from the kitchen junk drawer, found the page with Tozier on it, and ripped the page from the book. Tore it into tiny little pieces until it looked like confetti. After a few minutes he had cooled down and started to feel embarrassed, so he wrapped the shredded pieces into a paper towel and threw the wad in the garbage. His knees were still green. 

Two hours later, Eddie got bored and dialed Richie’s phone number, which he had memorized anyway. On the phone he had told Richie about what he’d done, and they both laughed hysterically at the image of Eddie throwing a tantrum, trying to rip Richie out of his life as if such a thing could be managed so easily. The next day in Social Studies, Richie slipped Eddie a drawing of how he imagined the moment, cartoon clouds of smoke coming out of Eddie’s ears. Eddie had loved that drawing. 

Now, Eddie watches Richie tuck his hands into his jacket pockets and shrug. There’s so much to be embarrassed about. The past and the present both. But if you get to pick who knows you well enough to make you embarrassed, Eddie knows who he’s picking. When Richie’s the one looking at the most excruciating parts of Eddie’s life, they feel lighter. 

“What’s the move?” Richie asks. “Want me to get in line with you?”

Eddie’s stomach rolls. 

It’s not now or never. If anything, he’s learned they’re both way more patient than he ever would’ve expected. But he also doesn’t want to drag this out any longer. He doesn’t want to spend one more day second guessing when the right moment will come along. 

“Hey,” he says, “so.” Then he puts his hands up on Richie’s shoulders and pulls him down a tiny bit, enough that Eddie can lean forward and finally kiss him.

He hasn’t gotten sick of being able to surprise Richie yet. Richie makes a little noise, goes stiff, and then relaxes immediately, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s neck so he’s cradling Eddie’s head in the crook of his elbow.

Eddie feels dizzy again, and like his face is gonna crack in two. His heart is going hard and fast. When he pulls back, Richie looks dazed. He looks like he could keep going, really—but they’re in the middle of an airport, which is pretty much the last place Eddie ever would’ve imagined wanting to kiss someone. 

“God,” Richie says.

“I told you,” Eddie says, beaming at him. 

Richie lets his head down on Eddie’s shoulder, just for a second. “Yeah. You’re really smart, Eds.” He laughs helplessly. “I have all these, like, completely insane things to tell you.” 

“Tell me one of them.”

Richie looks at the chaos around him and back at Eddie. “Soon. Okay?” 

“Gimme one for the road.”

“They’re not bite-sized! They’re all insane! Okay, fine.” Richie tilts his head up to show he’s thinking, and Eddie has to restrain himself from telling Richie not to stop looking at him. “I save every one of your voicemails. You say the same shit every time.  _ Hi Richie, it’s Eddie, it’s whatever-o-clock here, just thought I’d give you a call, hope you’re good, I’ll talk to you soon,  _ dial tone. I have like six of those that just play in a row if I let them.”

“Wow.” He curls his fingers into Richie’s shirt. If it was gonna be hard to leave before, it’s hell on earth now. It’s like they’ve swapped organs, and to pull apart he’s gonna have to rip his own lungs out of Richie’s chest. “You must be crazy about me.”

Richie laughs, a nervous, wild, stuttering sound. “Yeah, man. Guess I must be.”

+

By the time Eddie’s taken his seat on the plane, the adrenaline has cooled down a little, leaving his stomach aching with longing almost like grief. Somehow, even that is a good feeling. 

He’s got an aisle seat this time, but he still stares hard out the window, not knowing or caring if the guy beside him minds. Richie might still be inside, sitting on a bench or getting another cup of tea. Or he might be getting into Bev’s car and driving back to meet her, or maybe he’s going to drive somewhere else first and spend some time alone, think through what just happened. Pretty soon the captain is going to tell them to switch their devices to airplane mode, and then Eddie won’t be able to ask. For the next four hours Richie will still be out there, living and moving around, a whole other person who keeps on existing when Eddie can’t see him. He couldn’t say why the idea feels so staggering. 

They’d never said goodbye on purpose. The first time they’d all left Derry, none of them had known what it would mean. If Eddie’s honest, he wasn’t sure what leaving Derry was going to mean the second time, either. Scary? Fucking scary. But also a good thought.

Something  _ dings  _ and Eddie takes his eyes away from the window long enough to buckle up, and then looks back again. 

Never on purpose, and never forever. Pretty soon—really fucking soon, if he can manage it—never again. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can tell I'm in a self-isolation daze if the way I'm coping is writing no-conflict happy fic about airports. I hope you are all doing all right and taking care of yourselves!
> 
> During the "President Nixon has a hedgehog called Frank" part they are referencing [this bit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2V8sFfQo6SA)
> 
> ty as ever to orestesfasting for proofreading and for introducing me to both HGTV and the concept of see-food
> 
> i'm on tumblr @jonasblackwood
> 
> Dedicated always to the ICP


End file.
